


I’m the Fool

by imachar



Series: The Weight of a Man [7]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Pike has been an ass and apologizes to Boyce…on his knees…</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’m the Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: skyblue_reverie

As soon as he opens the door to the borrowed apartment Phil Boyce knows that someone else is there, and he knows who it is. There's a pair of uniform boots by the door and a wet towel hanging over the banister of the stairs up to the bathroom; a glance straight ahead to the kitchen reveals his bottle of Campari sitting open on the counter and in the bedroom to the left there's a regulation duffel lying open on the bed, its contents spilled across the dark linen bedspread – he’d have thought that after 25 years of living in the confined spaces of starships Chris would have learned neatness, but apparently not. The apartment is climate controlled but is feeling surprisingly muggy and Phil opens the door to the living room and looks through to the terrace where he can see the narrow French doors are open - the only thing visible through them a pair of long, jean-clad legs and bare feet resting on his wrought iron terrace table.

For just a moment he hesitates. Phil left San Francisco for Rome a month ago, accepting the offer to fill in as the Starfleet medical liaison with FERO - the Federation Emergency Relief Organization - for a couple of months. Under normal circumstances he would have thought twice about leaving Chris for so long when they were just getting settled in a new apartment - a new life - dirtside after almost ten years together on the Yorktown. But the restless boredom of four months of mandatory rest leave combined with Chris’ anger at being grounded and losing the Yorktown had made him virtually impossible to live with and after one last blazing fight Phil had handed out one of his rare ultimatums – he was going to Rome for seven weeks and he expected Chris to have reached some kind of peace with Command’s decision by the time he got back.

It’s four weeks later; their only contact has been a series of relatively impersonal comms relaying the details of Chris’ trip to Baja with a friend from his academy days – a chance to drink and surf and relax – and Phil has no idea what to expect when he walks out the door to the terrace. He’d sent Chris the door code to his apartment without any expectation that he’d use it and certainly not this quickly, but it has to be a good sign, Phil thinks, that Chris is here, and obviously has made himself at home.

He’s not sure if it’s the month separation or the slight physical changes that almost four months of furlough have wrought, but Phil’s breath catches at the sight of Chris lounging back in one of the sturdy iron deck chairs. His hair has grown out, longer than Phil has ever seen it, curling around his nape and untidy across his forehead and three weeks in the Baja surf have left him tanned and just a little scruffy. Other than the jeans, he’s only wearing a black linen shirt that he hasn’t bothered to fasten and even the very slight threads of gray in his hair and sideburns and scattered across his chest just make him sexier from Phil’s, admittedly very biased, perspective. When Phil manages to drag his gaze away from the spectacular body and finally faces his partner of a decade he finds that Chris is looking...predatory, for want of a better word, and not nearly as repentant as Phil had been expecting.

But if he's not particularly penitent he has at least managed devastatingly sexy, and as Phil takes another moment to appreciate the view he realizes that he can work with this. He's silent for a long moment, just leaning against the iron frame of the terrace doors, regarding Chris with a steady gaze, watching as the tall glass of iced Campari and soda, held loosely in Chris’ left hand, sweats a little puddle of water onto the terra-cotta tile beneath his chair. The silence stretches for a long time in the sultry heat of a Roman evening as they assess each other and settle into the awareness that whatever they say next could make or break their relationship. Finally it’s Chris who breaks the silence.

"I’m sorry."

"You can do better than that." Phil is a little surprised at his own response; he’s the laid-back one of the pair and normally he’d be happy with what is clearly a genuine and heart-felt, if brief, apology. But he’s already half-hard just from the sight of Chris sprawled out on his terrace and he realizes with a shock that he's very, very serious - Chris is going to have to do a hell of a lot better than “I’m sorry.” There's still enough residual anger from that last awful fight that Phil wants far more than a simple verbal apology - he wants a physical demonstration of penitence – if he’s honest with himself he wants Chris on his knees, with that clever, mobile mouth engaged in something else entirely than talking. With a casualness that he doesn't really feel, Phil adjusts the ridge in his uniform pants and as an added hint, unfastens the catch at the waistband and watches as Chris' eyes widen slightly with a gratifying mixture of lust and surprise and just a hint of resistance.

“So, just how sorry are you?”

For a moment Chris casts his eyes down and Phil feels his heart-rate speed up, suddenly afraid that he might have pushed too hard that, despite the implicit desire for reconciliation in Chris’ presence, there’s still a lingering resentment that won’t tolerate Phil pushing him like this. But then Chris moves, downing the last of the Campari and setting the glass on the table even as he rocks the chair forward onto all four legs and stands in one fluid motion. Phil’s encouraged by Chris’ very obvious physical response to his challenge, the painted-on jeans straining slightly across his hips, and when Chris raises his head Phil can see there’s nothing in his face to indicate he’s still angry, just raw desire and a slightly wary tension.

“I think we better take this inside, don’t you?” Chris gestures toward the room behind Phil and then follows as Phil withdraws into the dim interior. Lit only by the low slanting rays of the dying sun the air in the living room is still and heavy with the humid heat of late August and Phil can see the slight sheen of sweat on Chris’ face and neck - can feel it on his own body, tracing a path down his spine and beading in the fine short hair at his nape.

The plastered wall by the French doors is a cool relief as Phil leans back against it and watches the swift play of emotion on Chris’ face – need, contrition, desire and just a trace of defiance. But as long as Phil has known him Chris has never backed down from a challenge and while Phil is still utterly surprised at Chris’ swift capitulation, watching as he goes gracefully to his knees, he is even more surprised at the force of his own reaction. His cock is suddenly - shockingly – fully hard as he twines his fingers into the thick, heavy curls and tugs slightly until Chris is looking up at him. It’s Chris’ turn to challenge now, his blue-gray eyes sharp and clear, as if he doesn’t quite believe that Phil is going to push him like this, but Phil just sets his jaw and tugs a little harder, his need to see Chris acquiesce to his will overriding any reservations about mixing power and anger and submission in this way.

The last four months have been hell. Chris' fury and frustration at Command for grounding him for five years, underlain by an unspoken but very evident bitterness that it was, in part at least, Phil’s last semi-annual psych and phys evaluation of him that led them to that decision, have made it impossible for the two of them to be in the same room let alone the same bed for any length of time. And if three weeks of surfing in Baja have calmed Chris’ rage and cleared his mind enough for him to realize that this is not Phil’s fault, and to acknowledge that he's being a total ass to the one person who might otherwise be counted on to support him through what they both know is going to be a very difficult transition, well, so much the better.

Phil settles more comfortably against the wall, his lower body canted forward at just the right angle for Chris to tug his pants and boxers down over his hips and lean in to rest his forehead against the taut, lightly furred concave of his belly. All Phil can see as he looks down is the top of Chris’ head and the expanse of black-clad back and shoulders and he surprises himself again with another low, rough order.

“Lose the shirt.”

“Anything else?” There’s a slightly sardonic edge to Chris’ voice now, and as he looks up at Phil his eyes are dark with an almost reluctant lust – but he does as he’s told, shrugging the shirt off his shoulders and watching silently. Phil gives a slightly feral little grin in response, the view of a broad well-muscled back and tanned shoulders sending a fresh shiver of arousal through him and making his cock twitch slightly against Chris’ cheek.

“Yeah.” He reaches down and brushes his thumb firmly across Chris’ lower lip. “Suck me until I come.”

And then, with no more warning than Chris’ deep inhale he’s engulfed in the talented mouth that has cut him so deeply, and so often, in the last few months. With shaking legs and racing pulse, Phil groans at the feel of that clever tongue curling around his flesh, teasing over the head and wrapping around the shaft and then utters a low, broken sound as Chris sucks his cock deep and hums around the thick length. It’s been a long time since anyone but Chris has gone down on him, but Phil’s sure, despite the lack of recent comparisons, that Chris gives head better than anyone he can remember in those years before monogamy set in - in part, it’s that whole slightly egotistical need to be the best at whatever he does - but that combination of skill and care and attention to detail is devastating when applied, like this, to making Phil come apart from the inside out.

Amazed that he manages to stay upright through the assault on his senses Phil flattens his hands against the cool wall and closes his eyes as Chris grips his hips tightly and holds him in place, the brush of soft hair against his belly making Phil shudder almost as much as the smooth slide of a hot mouth and just the barest scrape of teeth on his cock. And then he whines an incoherent plea as Chris pulls off for a moment, tongue flicking lightly over the sensitive, pliant head. Phil opens his eyes and looks down into amused and slightly conceited blue.

“That the best you’ve got?” Chris smirks and it’s every bit as much of a challenge as the one Phil issued earlier and again Phil is surprised at the intensity of his response – wrapping a hand into Chris’ hair once more and asking in a slightly cracked whisper.

“You want me to fuck your mouth, to come buried in your throat? Is that what you want?”

Chris just tilts his head in that way that he has, suggesting that’s exactly what _both_ of them want, although it’s a place they rarely go, and with a hard tug Phil pulls Chris back onto his cock and then it’s over really fast. With an uncharacteristic lack of care Phil thrusts all the way to the back of Chris’ throat and feels the extraordinary constriction as Chris swallows and sucks at the same time. It’s a wild, urgent explosion of sensation and Phil comes hard, his head hitting the wall hard enough to sting, not that he really notices the pain, just one more sensation lost in the thunder of his heart and the struggle to breathe. Shattered and slumped against the wall he’s still shaking with the force of his orgasm when he finally opens his eyes and watches Chris sit back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and adjusting the tight stretch of denim across his crotch with the other. Looking down the length of broad chest and flat stomach Phil can see where the low slung jeans are tented wide enough that the denim gapes away from Chris’ abdomen and he wonders idly – still slightly hazed with lust - if, adjusted just so, would Chris’ cock clear the waistband of his jeans?

“So are we good?” It takes Chris just a moment to lever himself to his feet and Phil reaches out to pull him close, fingers hooked his jeans, taking a long look at this man who he loves beyond all reason, even when he’s driving him crazy.

“We’re good.” But there’s a coda hanging in the air. “We still need to talk about this – but for now, I think you need some relief…” Phil strokes a long finger under taut denim and watches Chris shiver as he touches hot, hard satin-sheathed flesh. “…and I think we could both use dinner.”

It’s then, as he flicks open the top button of the tightly drawn fly, that Phil realizes that Chris is naked beneath the jeans and he doesn’t know whether to be irritated or amused by the implicit presumption of that choice. He settles for a brief, dry laugh.

“You planned this didn’t you? You cocky fucker.”

“What? Forgiveness by blow-job?” Chris is grinning, and he leans in to kiss Phil, slow and thorough, the bitter-sweet of the Campari tempering the sharp bitter-alkali taste of come on his tongue and when he pulls back he looks relaxed and happy and just a little smug. Phil still has his hand hooked in the waistband of Chris’ jeans and stops at the second button, thumb teasing over the head of a very, very stiff prick.

“Well, just for that I think you can wait.” And Phil laughs at the slightly appalled look on Chris’ face and then lays a hand flat against Chris’ chest as he tries to press Phil back against the wall. This is a much more familiar game, this little physical struggle for dominance that Chris would always win if he really tried, but he rarely does and tonight is no exception; he relaxes when Phil makes it clear that he’s serious - his compliance just one more sign of Chris’ contrition.

“Dinner…now…we can fuck later, I promise.”

******************************

It’s a short walk from Phil’s apartment in the block between Piazza Farnese and Campo dei Fiori to the restaurant he has in mind, a little place on Monserrato that does the best fish and seafood in the city. At a little after 20:00 it’s still quiet, at least an hour too early for civilized Romans to be eating, and they get one of the coveted tables in the open patio, cool air from the climate control keeping the waning heat of the day at bay. Phil is, unsurprisingly, more relaxed than Chris, and he orders easily in fluid Italian, sopressa di polipo, sea bream in salt, baccala salad and the Venetian treat of sarde in saor – interspersed with a whole series of white wines and a perfect lemon sorbet to finish. By the time they are done they’re both leaning back in their chairs, more at ease with each other than they’ve been in months and Phil watches in silence as Chris reaches out to lay a hand over one of his, thumb stroking gently along the slight roughness of the surgeon’s callus on his forefinger. They’ve avoided talking about the fight all night and now finally, Chris offers.

“I really am sorry.”

“I know, I can tell – what I don’t know is why?” Still not quite ready to let it go without a clarification of this, so far unexplained, change of heart, Phil turns his hand over and slides it around a strong wrist, not letting Chris retreat back to the other side of the table. A shrug and a quirk of his eyebrow and Chris is explaining – about his realization that Phil hadn’t meant Command to ground him for five years, about his fear that Barnett hadn’t been serious when he’d offered up the Enterprise as a bribe for spending that time at the Academy – a fear that had been completely defused when Barnett had taken him on a quick trip out to the graving yards in Riverside to watch the “keel” - in effect the ventral surface of the engineering hull - being laid on what would be the largest and most advanced Federation ship to date. And then three weeks of relaxed hedonism with John Mowbray who’d known Chris since he’d been a 17-year-old early entry cadet and was one of the very few people, other than Phil, who could kick his ass when he was being an idiot.

“Remind me to send John a bottle of tequila when I get back.” Phil rubs his thumb absently along the fine bones of Chris’ wrist and then tugs gently.

“Come on, time to go home…” He can feel the slightly too rapid trip of Chris’ pulse and knows that he’s been hovering on the edge of almost painful arousal all evening, encouraged by the occasional prompt of a touch, or word or just a suggestive look, from Phil.

It’s not quite 23:00 when they leave the restaurant, and while Monserrato is dark, it’s not deserted by any means, people milling around the doors of the few restaurants and bars along the street taking advantage of the evening cool and, even though he knows Chris would like to set a slightly faster pace, Phil dawdles a little on the short walk home, curling their fingers together, smiling at the raised eyebrow he gets from Chris in response, equal parts irritation and fondness.

“Just enjoy the city at night, love – it’s not often you get to walk down streets that are 3000 years old.”

Chris huffs a short laugh and relents, shortening his stride and relaxing against Phil, shoulders touching as they walk and lean into each other.

***********************

While Phil’s apartment is technically on Campo dei Fiori, the main door opens onto Farnese and Phil punches in the outer door code, the portiere long gone for the night, to swing open the portina that is set into the six meter high main doors, letting them into the quiet peace of the inner courtyard. The apartment is at the back, 90 square meters of piano nobile, with five meter frescoed ceilings, a bizarre upper story over the living room and kitchen that holds the bathroom and an open loft that Phil’s been using as an office, and a huge bedroom with corner windows onto the Campo and Via della Corda.

It’s noisy and warm in the bedroom and Phil shuts out the world as Chris clears the bed – sweeping his duffel onto the floor and throwing an armful of clothes onto a chair before stripping with an effortless efficiency that makes Phil draw a hard breath. Chris is so hard that his cock is flat and tight against his abdomen - a remarkable feat of circulation for someone who has just past 48 - and Phil pulls him into a fierce, needy kiss even as he’s struggling with his own clothing. The jeans make it intact onto the floor, but the navy dress shirt will never be quite the same again as Chris just tugs it hard over Phil’s head and ignores that the cuffs are still fastened.

“Bed now.” Phil has a hand curled tightly around the nape of Chris’ neck and walks them awkwardly across the room until he hits the mattress with the back of his thighs - breaking a second kiss for just a moment to ask “What do you want?”

“Hands and knees, please Phil, I need to fuck you.” It’s as close as Chris will come to begging and Phil figures he’s suffered enough for one night and falls onto the bed, feeling the mattress dip behind him even as he’s rolling to come up on all fours. Chris has strong, broad hands, with long fingers that wrap around Phil’s hips and for a brief, slightly disconcerting, moment Phil wonders if Chris is going to try to take him with no prep and no lube. But he just leans down and presses his forehead to Phil’s back, and then licks a long hot stripe from the small of his back to his nape, breaking away when his mouth is against Phil’s ear to whisper. “Love you.” And before Phil can respond Chris nips his earlobe and growls. “And now I’m going to nail you to the mattress.”

Phil’s expecting fast and hard, and isn’t surprised when Chris preps him with an almost brutal efficiency – using three fingers and his thumb to stretch Phil thoroughly, if a little more rapidly than is strictly comfortable. But then, when Chris stops, only the first couple of centimeters of his cock sheathed, Phil is amazed once again at Chris’ willpower. He teases in and out of the stretched muscle for a space of time that feels almost interminable. Despite the relief of the blow-job earlier in the evening Phil’s on edge too – other than a few really angry up-against-the-wall fucks, the last few months have been pretty dry especially for someone who’d become used to sex virtually on demand over the last decade and he shudders as Chris teases a moment longer. He’s about to take matters into his own hands, bracing himself against the mattress, the better to impale himself on Chris, when, as if he can read Phil’s impatience, Chris wraps one hand around Phil’s hip and holds him steady as he shoves hard and slides in all the way.

It’s exquisite; the feel of Chris inside him at last and the thrust is hard enough that Phil collapses forward onto his forearms, burying his face in the pillows and groaning with relief. His heartfelt… “Oh yes, _fuck_ , do that again”…generates a deep chuckle from behind him and Chris leans down to tease across Phil’s nape with his teeth for just a moment before he starts a slow, deep, tireless stroke, pulling almost all the way out before hammering back in again and again and again.

Trying to stifle his own incoherent sounds of ecstasy, Phil bites hard on his forearm and rides out the punishing rhythm until he can feel it start to falter and grow erratic as Chris gets close, knowing that Chris is about to reach the point where his mouth runs ahead of his brain. Sex is the one place Chris can’t hide, in the heat of fucking he has never been able to control what comes out of his mouth, and Phil loves to hold out long enough to reach that moment, the rapid spill of endearment and confession and obscenity often enough to tip him into orgasm without a touch. And then a firm slick hand is wrapped around Phil’s cock, and Chris begins to stroke him in time with his stuttering, irregular thrusts, his free hand now alongside Phil’s head, bearing his weight as he whispers, quiet and rough and heart-breakingly earnest.

“Thought you’d left me, fuck Phil don’t ever leave me, couldn’t bear that…”

By way of response Phil just reaches out and wraps his hand tight around the wrist by his head and loses himself in the exquisite feel of Chris in him and around him, submerging himself in heat and sweat and aching pleasure.

“…need you – don’t ever forget that…need you more than anything…oh fuck …need …fuck… going to come in you…oh _fuck_ Phil…” and then Chris is biting down hard on Phil’s shoulder, stemming the almost incoherent flow of words and Phil feels the exact moment that Chris comes, spending in a long, shuddering spasm, his hand clamping tight around Phil’s cock in one last long stroke that makes Phil convulse and groan, low and deep as he comes in a wide spatter across the sheets.

They are collapsed in a heap on the bed, Phil crushed into the wet spot by Chris’ weight, and it’s Chris that speaks first…“Holy fuck” …his voice still rough and slightly ragged from the force of his orgasm.

Phil can’t catch his breath enough to speak until Chris slides out of him and rolls to the side and then he responds “Holy fuck indeed – missed you, missed this.” It takes another long moment before Phil’s able to roll onto his back and when he manages it he pulls Chris down into a long, lazy kiss. “Life’s a lot easier on us when you’re not being an asshole…” another kiss to soften the sting of his words “…so glad to have you back.”

Chris just buries his face in the side of Phil’s neck and Phil cards his fingers gently through the soft curls and relaxes before asking, “How long do you have?”

“A couple of days – I persuaded Barnett to let me go out on a recruiting run, they’re just about to start for next years’ intake.”

Another stroke through his too-long hair and Phil voices, a little ruefully. “So this isn’t going to last then?”

Chris laughs quietly, and Phil can tell that he’s tired now and just about ready for sleep. “Sorry, I have to be back in San Francisco early Monday and I’m getting this trimmed before I head for Sydney on Tuesday.”

“Damn, it’s really sexy on you.” Phil has roused himself enough to be able to reach over the side of the bed, hand flailing for a moment as he searches for something to clean up the worst of their mess. A wet towel would be best, but he really is too tired to get out of bed to fetch one and after a moment he finds a discarded t-shirt, smirking slightly as he realizes that it’s probably a clean one of Chris’ that fell out of the disordered duffel - Phil generally doesn’t leave laundry on the floor. When he’s done, Chris is almost asleep, wrapped comfortably around a pillow and Phil leans in for a last, brief kiss, stroking a stray curl back off Chris’ forehead and whispering,“We’d better make the most of the next two days then, hadn’t we?”

Chris doesn’t even open his eyes, just smiles and reaches for Phil. “Get some sleep, you’re going to need it.” And Phil makes himself comfortable, his back snug against Chris’ chest, and lets the strong embrace and the muffled sounds of the city soothe him into unconsciousness.


End file.
